Searching

By: Adam DeRito

There’s something about the eve of Easter that forces a man to slow down. Not in a comfortable way, but in a way that makes you sit with things you normally push off. The noise dies down. The distractions lose their grip. What’s left is the space between what is and what you hope still could be.

This morning, I volunteered at my church, dressing up as the Easter Bunny with the Knights of Columbus. Simple work, the kind that doesn’t make headlines. Helping set things up, making the kids smile, being present. The kind of thing that reminds you what community actually looks like when it’s real. Later in the day, I was out on the farm, working with my hands, dirt on my boots, and spraying for sandburs on my ATV. The kind of work that keeps you grounded. The kind of life people talk about when they say “the American dream” but don’t always understand. It’s not flashy. It’s not easy. It’s honest.

That contrast stayed with me all day. Because while I was living a quiet, ordinary life here at home, somewhere far from it, an American airman sits behind enemy lines. An F-15E Weapon Systems Officer. Downed, isolated, waiting. No comfort, no certainty, no guarantee of what the next hour looks like.

Meanwhile, somewhere else in that same darkness, Pararescue is already moving. They don’t hesitate. They don’t wait for perfect conditions. They don’t need a spotlight. They go. Through terrain that doesn’t forgive mistakes, through threats most people will never understand, through uncertainty that strips everything down to training, discipline, and purpose. That’s the mission. So that others may live.

That phrase isn’t a slogan. It’s a promise. A commitment that when everything goes wrong, someone is still coming. On the eve of Easter, that hits different. Easter is not just a celebration. It’s a confrontation with loss. It’s the recognition that something can be taken, buried, written off as finished, and still not be the end of the story. It’s about the search, the waiting, the uncertainty, the space between despair and belief.

There was a time in my life when I tried to step into that mission. I went after a slot as a Combat Rescue Officer. I didn’t make it. I failed. That failure didn’t break me, it clarified things. When you fall short of something like that, you don’t just walk away. You gain a real understanding of what it demands. You see the difference between wanting it and being able to carry it. That experience left me with something deeper than ambition. It left me with respect.

Real respect for the men who do that job. The ones who step forward when everything is on the line. The ones who don’t get to hesitate. The ones who carry someone else’s life on their shoulders and move anyway. Pararescue isn’t about being impressive. It’s about being dependable in the worst possible conditions.

That’s why tonight matters. Because somewhere out there, that mission is real. It’s happening right now. There are men moving through the dark with purpose, driven by a promise older than any one of them. We will come for you. No matter what.

That’s not just a military principle. That’s something deeper. It mirrors something a lot of us wrestle with. Faith is a search. It’s not clean. It’s not easy. It doesn’t come with guarantees. It requires stepping into uncertainty and choosing to believe anyway. Choosing to believe that something lost can be found. Choosing to believe that darkness is not permanent.

On a day like today, that idea becomes real. I spent the morning serving in my church. I spent the afternoon working the land. I lived the kind of life so many Americans are fighting to hold onto. Freedom, faith, work, purpose. Yet even in the middle of that, my mind kept going back to that airman, to his family, to the teams out there searching.

So tonight, I pray. I pray that he’s found. I pray that he’s alive. I pray that those Pararescue teams reach him and bring him home safely, back to his family, back to everything he represents.

This night reminds us that the most important things in life don’t happen in comfort. They happen in the dark, in the waiting, in the search. Easter doesn’t begin with celebration. It begins here, in uncertainty, in silence, in the decision to keep going, in the belief that the story isn’t over yet.

That someone is still searching. That someone is still coming. That hope is still alive. That no matter how far gone something feels, it’s still worth fighting for. It’s still worth believing in. It’s still worth bringing home.

For He is Risen.